So my yoga instructor told me I had good extension. I wasn't really sure what was going on, to be honest. She was coaching us through some sort of strange series of poses, probably with a name like the double downward dog lift, which involved extending one leg behind you. Apparently I pointed my toes well or something. Apparently it's something that dancers do*.

So she asked if I was a dancer.

The next thing that came to my mind was a somewhat incriminating photo on Facebook of me, drunk, performing what could be the contemporary variation of the sprinkler. It's quite the sight.

Pretty much, I dismissed my innate dancer qualities with laughter. I joked about it for days after. I still joke about it. Heck, I'm joking about it right now, right?

Wrong. Because I am a dancer now. Or at least I've danced, which technically makes me a dancer (meaning one who dances, which I have done. Go grammar, go!).

Yet again on Facebook, there is now a video of me and ten friends performing a choreographed dance number to It's My Life. There are spins, high kicks, fist pumps, jazz hands, and even a brief Thriller interlude. We pretty much have every single base covered, there; ball room, contemporary, lyrical, jazz, Michael Jackson, Jersey Shore. We did it all.

That's how multi-talented I am.

I even taught dance a few weeks ago. To nurses. There I was, at the front of a classroom, barking out the 8-count and punctuating it with dance commands. It sounded a little like this:

For half an hour I counted beats and taught people to dance. I think I have found my calling.

And who would suspect the dance teacher of being a vodka-drinking fruit ninja, anyways?

*the only reason I know this is because I watched the second season of SYTYCD (which I always call Es Why Tee Why See Dee, but really fast) religiously. Travis deserved to win. Not Benji. Me and my sister are still deeply upset all these years later.

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